The Straight Dope, Straight From the Thinkbone of Silky

A total fucking wasteland. Las Vegas is a town built on nothing, representing only the basest of human interactions, lacking even the modicum of soul one would attribute to the common housefly.

I'm not prepared to offer a quick announcement of a found silver lining here in the beginning of my second paragraph. I stand by my grim assessment, and shall let it rest unmitigated by any snarky, neo-gonzo intimation that we and we alone were armed with the tools to save truth, beauty and meaning from Las Vegas' gaping maw. There will be no saving Sin City from itself, nor a need to save ourselves from Sin City. The place is too ravaged by its ever shifting caprices - that it may continue to attract unending waves of the indolent and the pie-eyed and the desperate- to ever leave a mark deeper than a headache on the likes of Bumpy Squires and The Shadow.

Come here looking for nothing, and you won't be disappointed.

The bats? Well, the bats are another story.